


My Gift is My Song (And This One's For You)

by thegoodthebadandthenerdy



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 18:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16918155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodthebadandthenerdy/pseuds/thegoodthebadandthenerdy
Summary: A collection of my various Eldonado prompt fills from tumblr so I have a centralized place for them!





	1. I Love You - Said Hoarsely Underneath the Blankets

Sam and Peter had been having sleepovers since they were nine years old. It was funny, really, that it had taken them that long at all, considering they'd been friends since they were five. But up until he was eight and a half Sam had night terrors, and Peter just didn't like to be away from his mom for longer than an afternoon.

But then they'd turned nine and suddenly everything changed, they were old enough to have complexes about these kinds of things, it seemed, which meant they were officially Big Kids and Big Kids could have sleepovers at their best friend's house no problem.

It wasn't really no problem, though.

As they settled in for bed that night - staring up at the high ceiling of Peter's room from the comfort of his Scooby Doo sheets - Sam tugged the covers over his and Peter's heads.

 _It's cooler this way,_  he had explained in an over-exaggerated manner. Peter had simply followed along because Sam was nine months older, and that constituted a swift blanket rule of taking a lot of what he said as gospel.

Peter had asked what that meant though, and Sam had gone on to admit that he thought Peter's mom was really cool, but that he wasn't a fan of what she'd made for dinner, considering his aversion to pineapple.

In the moment Peter had taken that solemnly, but about nine years later, he'd laugh his way through reminiscing.

Still, it had been the start of something for them.

°°°

When they were twelve, they were long into their sleepover tradition - three years was an incredibly long time to twelve year olds. They were in middle school by then, and had started to succumb to peer pressure vis a vis what was acceptable behavior for guys, especially so-called best friends, which meant they left a little extra space between them.

Which was stupid, and they both thought it was stupid, but it had been their implementation since the beginning of sixth grade, and it was hard to break over a year of habitual behavior.

Sam, as he usually did, was the one to pull the covers over their heads sometime in the middle of seventh grade.

Peter knew what that meant, especially when combined with the fact that Sam.had been acting weird all week, which meant he rolled onto his side to look him in the eyes.

Sam rarely ever looked worried, not for pop quizzes, not when the other kids picked on him because he was so outspoken and generally offtopic. Yet, in that moment, he looked terrified.

Peter didn't push him, didn't ask what was wrong. They'd admitted plenty of things to one another under the comfort of Peter's sheets - though the Scooby Doo pattern was long gone - and he knew that some of then could take time.

_Pete, I think I'm gay._

That had been Sam's big reveal for seventh grade. Still, unperturbed, Peter had nodded, told him okay, and reached out to grab his hand. He squeezed it slightly before he closed his eyes, knowing better than to say anything else on the matter. He hoped Sam couldn't feel his heartbeat thumping rapidly in his palm.

°°°

It would be a while later, in the hours where it swapped from being Peter's fourteenth birthday to just another January day when Sam would pull the sheet over their heads - quicker than normal to muffle their laughter at the old practice - and turn toward Peter.

It wasn't meant for confessing anything, honest, but Peter loved tradition, and he couldn't stand to see their own little cave go unused. Especially with their sleepovers becoming fewer these days.

His eyesight had become steadily shittier in the elapsed time, which meant that when at their last confession he hadn't needed them, now he would have had to put his glasses on to see Sam's face fully. He didn't though, didn't want to make anymore of a deal out of it, which meant he had to look over and gauge reactions from Sam's fuzzy face. Somehow, it made it a little easier.

 _Sammy,_ he'd started.  _I, uh. I wanted to tell you- um. Just. I'mgaytoookaygoodnight._

His emotions had never spilled out on his face like Sam's, instesd inflicting themselves upon his words as they did in that moment. Sam's eyes had widened, but he'd just let a smile bleed onto his face as he breathed out,  _cool._

°°°

They wouldn't realize what exactly that declaration meant until they were seventeen because they were dumb, really. And so royally bad at getting their shit together.

They wouldn't admit the bottled up feelings they'd had under the sheets of Peter's bed - no longer Scooby Doo, now soft geometric patterns. Instead that confession would find itself laid out in daylight, a half-shouting, half-pleading match done in wavering sunlight that culminated with a surprising and rough and awkward kiss that would eventually devolve into hundreds of kisses nothing at all like it.

°°°

They're in that limbo of months when Peter is, on paper, a year younger than Sam when the final confession for a good long while happens.

It's summer, and it's hot, and yet they're still laid next to one another. It's not a sleepover, because somehow thirteen years of friendship doesn't override not even two years of dating, which means that if it were a sleepover, Sam would be downstairs on the couch. Which is ludicrous to eighteen year old Peter for a lot of reasons, but one day it'll be funny, a story to tell while high on mirth.

But it's not time for that yet, it's the middle of a Monday towards the end of summer, and they want to be close to one another, but even with the A/C on it's too hot for that. Still, the sides of their hands are pressed together for that sliver of contact.

Sam's shaking his foot, rocking them gently, and they're both somewhere near the edge of a summer-sticky sleep as the old school rock drifts over Peter's laptop speakers.

His glasses are pressed into his face uncomfortably, but he can't find the energy to care. He can, though, find it in himself to turn and face Sam.

He studies his profile, the line of his nose, and the cuff of his ear, and the way his lips are slightly parted.

Peter has known for a while, so he isn't sure what possesses him to do what he does next, but still, he sits up, catching Sam's attention.

He grabs the sheet from where they'd kicked it to the end of the bed, and arches it over them, letting it settle with a cool breeze.

 _What's this for?_ Sam asks curiously because in all their years, Peter has never initiated the pulling of the covers. Peter smiles at him, close lipped, and mostly with the side of his mouth, but it's real, and it's there.

 _I love you_ , he murmurs, something strained in his voice - though not with any kind of doubt, just with simple emotion. When Sam would later relay it, he would say hoarse, and Peter would just roll his eyes.

 _Hey,_ Sam says, bringing his hand up to brush at the side of Peter's face, despite the fact that physical human contact feels like hell itself.  _I love you, too._

It's funny to think about how much they've changed under those sheets. From the small things, like how Sam had long grown out of his hatred of pineapple - now a proprietor of pineapple on pizza in an almost militaristic sense - to the big things, like finding identities they hadn't even realized were there.

Still, it's nice to know that this one thing hadn't changed, nor would it ever.


	2. "I'm leaving, your energy is harshing my vibe."

Sam shucked his headphones, letting them hit the tan carpet beneath him before he shot to his feet, something hot rising in his chest. He peered down at Peter, cheeks already flushed in red as Peter looked back with his Pinched Face of Anger.

“You know what, dude?” he asked, his voice taking on a surprisingly sharp edge. “I’m gonna go, your energy is really _harshing my vibe._ ”

He only said it to piss Peter off, which said all it needed to say, considering how much they hated to fight with one another. Sure, they’d some serious spats here and there, but stuff like this they normally tried to move past quickly.

But Sam was full of a self-righteous anger that only came when Peter was in one of his pissy little moods, which meant that instead of their usual, he stalked off. The moment he pressed into his room, he was torn between wanting to slam the door for maximum effect, and having been Raised Better Than That to slam doors in someone else’s house. He instead closed it a little more forcefully than usual and hoped it made enough of an impact.

He flopped back onto his bed, arms splayed wide on either side of him, letting his chest rise and fall with stewing anger.

This had been happening more and more lately - especially in the past week. Sam had thought that getting to live with his best friend in a dope ass guest house for a few months would be cool. A continuation from when they were kids and used to have sleepovers whenever they could convince their parents to allow it to happen. But instead, it was as if they were always butting heads. Instead of moving together they were on two separate tracks that overlapped in the worst places.

Sure, the first week, week and half had been good. Great, even. But after the so-called honeymoon period (Gabi’s words, not his, she was the psych major for a reason) had worn off, they just started to get on one another’s nerves like they didn’t even know they could.

Most of the time it meant them going their separate ways, cooling off, and ending up back beside one another within the hour. But this - Sam could just feel this uncomfortable, thick anger stuffing up his throat, and he couldn’t stand it. With every passing thought he just grew more and more irritated until finally he pushed back up off his bed, and headed back out into the living room.

Peter wasn’t there, his own headphones thrown on the ground beside their laptops, where they’d been multi-tasking Vandal work and school work. Sam was clenching and unclenching his hands hard, words spilling up his throat in anticipation for the head of a confrontation. Realizing there were noises come from the kitchen, he moved quickly toward it, finding Peter with his back facing the majority of the room, instead half hunched over the granite countertop doing something that Sam couldn’t make out.

“Okay,” Sam said, calling attention to himself. “I’ve decided I want to know what the _fuck_ your problem is with me this week- hell, this month. I’m sick of you having such a short fuse with me, it’s bullshit, man. You’ll answer the same three questions from half the fucking student body, but I make one comment and you jump my shit.” His fingers trembled unpleasantly as he waited for Peter’s response.

Peter turned around, his eyes slightly wider than usual. The thing was, that as confrontational as Sam seemed just, as a person, he wasn’t like that with Peter. Never had been, just like how Peter had always had the utmost patience for him - except that had obviously gone out the window.

“My problem?” Peter repeated. “ _My_ problem? Why don’t you try _your_ problem?”

“I don’t have a fucking problem, Peter!”

“You don’t? Well, you sure as shit could’ve fooled me, Sam. Really, congrats, you’re already halfway to the Oscar you’ve always wanted. Listen, if I have a problem - which I don’t - it’s because you’ve got one.” His hands twitched at his side underneath his too big sleeve, a nervous gesture that Sam hadn’t seen in years.

Even in the midst of his anger - which he was starting to come down from, was starting to forget what it was even for - Sam picked out the gesture and knew that it meant something.

“All right, fine,” he conceded - not completely, because even if he knew he’d started half their shitshows, Peter was still being a total dick, too - and added, “Fine.”

“Is it really fine, though, Sam? We’re at each other’s throats constantly, and I’m already stressed enough with this whole Turd Burglar shtick, and I know you are too, and I’m probably failing that stupid fucking Latin class I decided I just _had_ to take, and I’m pretty sure that like half the people we’ve met since we’ve been in Bellevue are either straight out lying to us, or at least fucking with us, and all that’s not even to mention my huge fucking _thing_ for y-” he stopped abruptly, his teeth clicking harshly against one another. “Just forget it. We’ll figure it out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa-” Sam started immediately. “I’m glad that you got all that off your chest or whatever, but you can’t just say- is that why you’re being such a dick to me? Because you’ve got a crush on who- Chloe? You can’t just shut your best friend out because you have a crush-”

“I can if it’s on the best friend,” Peter snapped. “Okay, Sam? I can because it’s you, and it’s always been you, and I’m trying so fucking hard, on top of _everything else_ we’ve got going on, to make it go away so we can go back to how things were because I would sooner do so much fucked up shit than have to live without you. Are you satisfied?”

For once in his life, Sam Ecklund was completely speechless.

Peter’s face crumpled further with each second that passed in silence, until finally his eyes hardened, and anyone who’d known him for even a second knew he had shut down.

Copying Sam’s earlier move, he made his way to leave the kitchen, brushing past him on accident. It was what Sam needed though, to shock him out of whatever processing stupor he’d been firmly planted in.

“Peter- Pete, wait,” he stumbled out, reaching to grab at his arm. He found himself on the end of a trademark Maldonado glare (perfected, of course, but his mother,) but it still wasn’t enough to deter him. The moment happened in that slow motion from all the movies that Sam made Peter watch, and not the other way around. To be fair, Sam had thought it was super fake, the slow-mo thing.

But there they were, in Chloe Lyman’s bitchin’ guest house kitchen, half turning to face one another, and instead of more traded words, they're falling into a kiss unlike any that they’d ever had.

To be fair, Sam’s extent of kissing was awkward Camp Miniwaka adventures, and Peter’s was like, that one space camp he’d gone to the summer between seventh and eighth grade, and that one party he’d ended up at freshman year (somehow with an invite, but without Sam?) where he’d had one good gay awakening in the bathroom of the home some kid who had since moved away, with a boy who had also moved away.

At first, Sam bumped into Peter’s glasses, probably gave him a slight burn with how fast he whipped him around by his arm, too, and Peter’s nose almost took his eye out. But it only took a second to redirect, Sam grabbing either side of his face, and Peter wrapping his hands into the huge ass cardigan Sam had on to tug him just a little closer.

Finally air became a priority, and they undid their mouths to tug breaths in through their noses. Still, Peter’s hands didn’t loosen in Sam’s sweater, nor did Sam’s drop away from his face.

“Kinda fucked up to tell me that and not let me say my piece. Thought you were a good debate kid.”

“I literally dropped out of debate a week after it started,” Peter replied, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes, instead finding something particularly interesting in his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Yeah, but it’s good to keep you on your toes and bring it up every now and then.”

“Shut up.”

“That your way of saying ‘kiss me,’ Pete?”

“Maybe, might also be me telling you to shut up or you’re not getting the apology cookies.”

“The what?”

Peter grinned, alebit a little smugly, and finally pulled his eyes up to Sam's. “Look at the counter.”

Sam’s eyes flicked over and sure as shit, there were ingredients littered across the counter.

“Are you serious- I interrupted apology cookies? Fuck, dude-”

“Shut up,” Peter repeated. “And yes, that’s a 'kiss me,’ shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you hadnt already guessed i often do prompt fills and am always open for them so!! find me on tumblr @wlwshehulk!!


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